


(No working title, work in progress)

by greentea_daydreams



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I'm simping for Riddler and I'm making it everyone's problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greentea_daydreams/pseuds/greentea_daydreams
Summary: Seems you've been kidnapped by a certain riddle-obsessed rogue, whom you've been crushing on in secret ever since you first witnessed him in action. What will ensue?
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Reader, Riddler/Reader
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's four in the morning, and I can't sleep. I had some fanfic ideas that I had to start mapping out so it wouldn't drive me crazy and maybe I can get some rest. Reader has had the hots for Riddler ever since they saw him on television. Did they hear about him on the news? Was it a station hijacking? I don't know and I'll work out the details later.

You couldn't remember what happened. You had seemed to have blacked out.

You woke up, and the world was still black. You couldn't speak, and you couldn't move a muscle. Was this what sleep paralysis was like?

After some struggling, you realized you seemed to be sitting up, restrained to a chair by ropes in an upright position, blindfolded and gagged. You managed to spit out whatever was obstructing your ability to speak.

"Pah! What the fuck?"

"Uh-uh! Language~" You heard a smooth voice scold you from somewhere in the room. Something about that voice was familiar in a way that made you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together.

"Where am I? What the hell is going on?" You spat, trying to sound pissed while obviously becoming very worried (and admittedly, a bit frightened) about the situation at hand.

You weren't stupid. You knew that living in a city like Gotham had its obvious risks. Nearly every day, the local news reported another criminal on the loose. In your opinion, the police force was a joke, but luckily a vigilante hero seemed to keep a sort of balance. Besides, it provided a sense of excitement that living in the suburbs just couldn't compare to.

"Stop squirming. To answer your question, you've been taken hostage. Put quite simply, my dear, you are _bat bait_." The reply was condescending, yet charming in a way you couldn't put your finger on. Where have you heard this voice before? It began to grate on your nerves, knowing yet not knowing.

In an instant, your blindfold had been yanked away and the first thing to meet your vision was a pair of intelligent green eyes boring into your (color) ones.


	2. Chapter 2

You were left sitting there, positively dumbstruck. There was no way you could have been kidnapped by _him_ , was there? It was hard to tell without your glasses, anyway, and you squinted.

Your green-clad captor turned and fumbled with a set of drawers nearby, producing your spectacles and carefully affixing them to your face. Your suspicions were confirmed. _Riddler._ You blushed immensely and averted his intense gaze as he corrected your lack of vision. It was... _awkward_ , to say the least, being in such close proximity to such a dangerous criminal, but what made it worse was that he was surprisingly gentle and precise with your belongings. Surely, if you had been stolen away by any other villain, your face would have been busted up. The only pain you could complain of was a dull headache and a stiffness in your limbs from the restraints.

You groaned in discomfort, slowly rotating your neck on its axis as soon as the man had backed up enough to allow you your personal space once more. He examined your facial expression, quickly putting two and two together.

"It seems you have a headache. Common side effect of chloroform," he mused, smirking and adjusting his bowler hat. "If you can prove to me that you will cooperate, I will provide you with acetaminophen and a glass of water. Do we have a deal?"

You shifted your weight uncomfortably in your seat as best you could under the circumstances. You were damn sure that if any one of those other assholes had managed to capture you, they would have punched you in the head for fun, not offered pain relievers. Why was he being so considerate?

Your (hair color) bangs framed the top of your glasses as you peered up at him suspiciously. "All right. What's the catch?"

"No catch," he replied, twirling his signature cane in a purple-gloved hand. "Prove to me that you'll remain sufficiently calm for me to turn my back on you long enough to retrieve the medicine, and it's yours. Should you fail, Gotham will have an empty spot on their library staff. That would be a shame, wouldn't you agree?"

The threat hadn't even registered. You had an epiphany.

You remembered where you had seen his face before, heard that unmistakable voice.

Not just on the news—no. You had seen him on plenty of occasions while you were at work. You just didn't realize it was him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Arthur Wynne?" You half inquired, half exclaimed, mouth agape in shock.

"Arthur Wynne. Ed Nygma. Riddler. All one in the same. But, that's our little secret." He pressed a gloved finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. He couldn't let word of his pseudonym get out to the authorities.

If your hands had been freed, you likely would have smacked yourself in the head with your palm. It should have been obvious. Even in plain clothes, the clues had still been there. The stranger was fond of wearing a forest green vest over a deep eggplant dress shirt and black slacks. Always the snappy dresser, even when incognito. 

You hated to admit it, but you'd caught yourself staring on the occasion that he would push up his sleeves after sitting down at a table and pulling out his laptop from his messenger bag. (Truthfully, his computing could have easily be done from home, but he had secretly grown to enjoy visiting you.) He may have noticed your gaze a few times, especially when you had absentmindedly bitten your lip before you realized your mistake and quickly averted your eyes.

What was it about this patron that had seized your attention? Was it his charisma, or the fact that he had nearly the exact same taste in literature as you? (Maybe both?) When he wasn't borrowing out research books, you saw that he would take out novels by your favorite authors.

The odd man always seemed bemused whenever you would address him as "sir" or "Mr. Wynne." So respectful, even if the name was fictitious. He liked that in a person. (Heaven knows nobody else treated him with an ounce of respect.)

You had gotten used to seeing his scruffy face at least once a week, long sideburns and tousled ginger hair a stark contrast from his manner of dress. Strange fellow, but somehow cute? He had the habit of returning all borrowed materials extremely early. _He must be a sponge_ , you often thought to yourself. Always plenty of works regarding various branches of science, particularly robotics and engineering. Was he some sort of hobbyist?

Thinking back on it, you wondered how you had never quite made the connection before, that Mr. Wynne and the Riddler were one and the same. You had seen the prince of puzzlers on the news on a number of occasions, and they had the same speech patterns, same facial hair, and the same striking green eyes. Sitting here now, you felt like a fool.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter in comparison, but I do love a good cliffhanger!

Was it the hat that covered most of his reddish brown hair? That stupid (sexy) domino mask that he wore, which hid his true identity from you so well? Certainly there must be others out there who have made bigger blunders than you. (Author's note: Anybody in Metropolis who couldn't tell that Clark Kent is Superman because of his glasses.)

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment. If you had the ability to use your hands, you would be pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. For now, you settled for scrunching your nose instead. The headache was worsening, and he had better make good of his promise soon.

"All right, 'Mr. Wynne,'" you wisecracked. "Why me? Why am I the _hostage du jour_?"

You knew there was usually some sort of method to his madness. He was the most logical of Batman's enemies, after all. As far as you could tell, your name didn't fit into any sort of puzzle, and you didn't consider yourself to be a person of any great importance. You had no connections to any of the city's elite. You had made a habit of keeping your head down and your nose strictly in your own business—usually buried in a book or a crossword. You considered yourself much too ordinary to find yourself in such an extraordinary predicament.

"If you break me, I do not stop working. If you touch me, I may be snared. If you lose me, nothing will matter. What am I?" His emerald irises burned into yours, and his lips were tugged upward in a smug smirk.

"The heart." Your answer came almost immediately. But what did he mean by issuing such a simple challenge? Surely there must be deeper implications...and your face turned beet red. Either he could see right through you, or he was making a bold proclamation of his own.


	5. Chapter 5

Your captor seemed to have taken notice of your deeply embarrassed expression, and he chuckled. As flustered and agitated as you were, the sound was music to your ears. You swallowed dryly and wished you could sink through the floor. The nerve of this arrogant fuck.

"You're no simpleton, my dear. I've observed you long enough to reach that conclusion," he replied unremarkably. (What he meant by this was, " _I've been spying on you while out of costume at your place of work_.")

The mysterious man, who identified himself as a certain Arthur Wynne, seemed to mostly keep to himself whenever present at the public library. You did catch him occasionally stealing glances at you over whichever encyclopedia he was reading—certain research materials were forbidden from being checked out, after all—and he liked to sneak a peek over your shoulder to glance at what you were up to inbetween holding the place together.

The more numbered his visits, the bolder he seemed to grow in time.

Mr. Wynne approached the counter and set down the books he wished to check out, along with his library card. 

"IBM," you heard him remark as he peered over your shoulder.

"Pardon?" You looked up from the crossword in the Daily Planet.

"The tech company nicknamed 'Big Blue.' It's IBM." He kept his tone down, of course, being in a library. He had completed the daily crossword at home that morning while drinking his coffee.

"Oh? Thanks." You hummed in approval, filling in the three missing letters. You felt blood rush to your face when you realized he was close enough to catch a whiff of spearmint on his breath. It was a good thing that you were sitting down, or else your knees would have likely turned to jelly and gave out beneath you.

"My pleasure, Mr./Ms. (name)." He smiled at you while you scanned his materials and his card into the system.

"Oh, just (name) is fine. I would wager this place is practically your second home. No need to be formal." Your cheeks still felt a bit hot, but your tone was warm and friendly. You placed his books and card back onto the counter and shyly tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, adjusting your spectacles.

"All right then, (name). Until next time." Smooth as ever, he swept his things into his messenger bag and waved at you as he made his exit.

As he made his way home, he chuckled to himself. Seems the cute bookworm he had his eye on had been successfully wrapped around his little finger.


End file.
